


Colorblind

by Tesserae



Category: SG-1 - Fandom, SGA - Fandom
Genre: First Time, M/M, SGC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tesserae/pseuds/Tesserae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets called into the SGC to explain why he's keeping the new toy they found under the tree Christmas morning, and unwraps a different present entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colorblind

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers; set sometime post-Pegasus project. Thanks to my betas, [](http://julia-here.livejournal.com/profile)[**julia_here**](http://julia-here.livejournal.com/) and [](http://filenotch.livejournal.com/profile)[**filenotch**](http://filenotch.livejournal.com/), for catching the parts where I hadn't quite gotten the story out onto the page.

When they showed him to his quarters, John thought about staying overnight in the Mountain, New Year's Eve or no New Year's Eve. He could meet with the IOA in the morning, and as unpleasant as that sounded, the faster he got through with Landry and the IOA the faster he'd be on board the Daedalus and on his way back to Atlantis. But as a plan it was doomed to failure: committees don't meet on Federal holidays. Or so Walter Harriman told him when he stopped by after stashing his gear to ask what time they needed him.

"January second? Two days from now?" John asked, trying to keep his face blank and the edge of panic out of his voice. "Why the hell did I have to come through the gate *today* if no one wants to talk to me until the second?"

Walter realigned the blotter on his desk and moved the stapler and a small tray full of paperclips to the top left side of it, a precise half inch from the edge of the desk. "General O'Neill's orders, sir. He said if Mr. Woolsey waited two more days to dial the SGC, he wouldn't put it past Dr. McKay to engineer another apocalypse so you wouldn't have to come at all." He coughed politely, and glanced up at John. "Sir."

John worked his jaw around, trying to get his ears to pop, and added "altitude" to the reasons why he hated coming into the SGC. He wondered briefly which one of his team had ratted him out, and to whom, exactly. _Apocalypse_ was maybe a little strong, but from the way Ronon's eyes gleamed when Rodney first brought it up, the weaponry demo, at least, was going to be pretty amazing. Still, orders were orders, and the maybe-Ancient, maybe-functional, maybe-totally-freaking-awesome energy-based rail guns on the space ship they'd discovered in geosynchronous orbit around MX5-721 were going to have to wait until John got back from refusing to give them to the IOA.

Footsteps sounded behind John, and a voice drawled, "Apocalypse, huh? Cool."

John turned around slowly, biting back a grin. He hadn't realized SG-1 was on the planet. All of a sudden, the prospect of spending two days on Earth got more interesting.

"Nah, just a little target practice. You want to drive out for the day, Mitchell, we'll throw a few steaks on the barbecue, maybe get a keg."

Mitchell grinned back, blue eyes gleaming. "Lemme know, I'll whip up some potato salad." He crossed the room to drop a hand on John's shoulder. "Didn't realize your team was in town, Sheppard. Been here long?"

"No team, just me." He leaned into Mitchell's touch briefly. "IOA," he added, pulling away. He was never sure if Mitchell was flirting with him or exercising the same charm John had seen him use on waitresses when he wanted extra whipped cream in his hot chocolate. Which made John wonder which category Mitchell put him into: waitress, or whipped cream? Of course, if he'd heard about the guns from Landry already, it put John squarely into both categories, a thought that made him throw a suspicious look at Mitchell.

Mitchell's face gave nothing away except the same tight frayed look John had been seeing on his own team. It made John think he needed to start reading the emails Woolsey sent around to the command team, the ones that went beyond reminders to get the performance reports written. Maybe whatever was dogging Mitchell meant Landry and the IOA wanted the guns for something more than showing off at the next inter-planetary shindig. It occurred to John that going into the meeting with the IOA in possession of that bit of information might not be a bad idea. He tried to remember if Carter had ever said anything about the best way to get Cameron Mitchell to drop his well-burnished guard, and if alcohol was involved.

An image of Mitchell, tipsy and affectionate, came into his mind, and he felt his ears start to flush just as Walter interrupted him with a cough. "Shall I get you a motel room, or will you be staying in your quarters here, Colonel?" he asked.

The flush turned into a full-body slam and John blinked, feeling his ears turn a furious red. "Sorry, what?" he said. A _motel_? Mitchell stepped away abruptly and crossed the room to study a seemingly-blank section of wall, his shoulders shaking.

Walter edged a stack of files into alignment with the corner of his desk. "General Landry suggested… There are a couple of motels nearby if you'd be more comfortable… it is New Year's Eve, sir, and we don't have cable," he finished in a rush. Behind him, Mitchell turned back around and watched Walter's attempts to corral his office supplies into Air Force-approved order with rapt attention.

John thought about saying he'd stay, but the sergeant was right, New Year's day meant _football_ with a capital FOOT, and maybe Mitchell could be persuaded to watch a game or two, which would give John a chance to figure out what the hell was going on between them. Mitchell had been setting off John's perimeter alarm since the first time they'd met, in a way women never seemed to until they were on the verge of flouncing out of the room, annoyed.

And hell, if the rail guns were all Mitchell was after, John wasn't above making him work for them.

He threw a quick glance at Mitchell, who met his eyes and held them for a long moment while the SGC ticked and hummed around them. Finally, as if he'd read the signal John wasn't entirely sure he'd sent, he walked back across the room to stand behind John's right shoulder. "Mitchells don't let friends stay in motels over holidays, Walter," he said lightly. "Tell General Landry that Colonel Sheppard's coming home with me."

Walter pulled his desk drawer open and took out a tiny bright pink pad of paper, and lined it up behind the stapler. "Yes, sir. And can I give him your word there won't be an apocalypse, sirs?"

Mitchell held up three fingers. "Scout's honor," he said, and bumped John with his shoulder.

John felt the space when he pulled away. "I was never a Boy Scout," he said. "But don't look at me, I left the new guns with Ronon and McKay. I'm sure nothing could possibly go wrong with them in charge." There was a skidding sound followed by a metallic thud as the stapler flew off Walter's desk and onto the floor. "Whoops," John said mildly.

Walter made a strangled noise deep in his throat.

Mitchell clamped a hand around John's arm and began to tow him toward the door. "No apocalypse," he threw over his shoulder, pushing the door open. "No explosions at all, I promise."

"January second," Walter said, his hands twitching toward the stapler lying on its side on the floor. "Oh-eight hundred, Colonels, _please_."

The door slammed shut behind them. Two airmen walked by, giving Mitchell a letter-perfect salute and John a curious look. Mitchell dropped John's arm and clapped him on the shoulder. "You got anything you need before we blow this popstand?" he asked, his voice hearty and over-loud.

John shook his head mutely, fairly sure that, whatever Mitchell had in mind, he'd be able to lend John a toothbrush. Mitchell had always struck him as the sort who saved the toothbrushes and tiny tubes of toothpaste he got from the dentist for guests.

So yeah, he didn't need his toothbrush. Clean shorts for his meeting with the IOA in two days – well, he wasn't going to think about those, especially if all Mitchell had in mind was football.

*

The elevator let them out at ground level and as they walked out into the long steel tube that led out of the Mountain, the same airman who'd passed them earlier waved at them from behind the wheel of a Jeep. "Give you sirs a lift to the parking lot?" he asked.

Mitchell glanced at John, and John yawned hugely in response, his ears finally popping. "Yeah, thanks," Mitchell said, and they clambered up into the back seat. "Car's parked near the back," he added, and the airman threw the jeep into gear and headed for the parking lot.

John had left Atlantis in the morning, an hour earlier, but it was dusk, and _ cold_, the air clear and dry and the Milky Way a blanket of light above them when the airman let them out and drove off with a quick salute. He wrapped his arms around his chest as the wind curled down the back of his neck.

"Didn't you bring a jacket?" Mitchell asked.

"It's back in my quarters. Why - you planning on taking me somewhere cold?"

Mitchell gave him a disbelieving look. "We are somewhere cold, Sheppard. But if you were dressed for it, we could go ice fishing. You ever catch your own supper?"

"Well, you know, the great thing about pizza is that it never tries to get away." John didn't bother to mention the last four years of fighting to set up trading networks with the few people who didn't want to kill them in the Pegasus galaxy. He suspected Mitchell knew something about trading missions, even if he'd never been able to get the full story of the hallucinogenic corn out of Sam Carter. "But you want to go catch a few anchovies knock yourself out. I'll wait in the car."

Mitchell fished a cell phone out of his pocket and brandished it at John. "I've been practicing with this – reels 'em in like clockwork every time. You really like anchovies?"

John shook his head, his mouth watering. _Pizza_. He knew Lorne and Ronon together would keep McKay away from the guns, and in any case, the there wasn't anything he could do even if Rodney took it into his head to lock them into their quarters and hijack the ship. He looked up at the Mountain, at the unfamiliar stars sharpening against the indigo sky, and leaned into Mitchell as they walked. "No anchovies. No pineapple. Other than that, I'm a cheap date."

"Yeah, but how many pizzas do I have to buy you before you put out?"

Beginning to feel as if he'd walked through the Gate into an alternate dimension whose chief form of entertainment was making his jaw drop and his ears turn red, John stopped. _Put out_?

First of all, who said _put out_ anymore? Second, ten minutes ago he hadn't even been sure Cameron Mitchell was even flirting with him, never mind getting ready to suggest he— he tightened his arms around himself and watched Mitchell as he slowed and finally came to a stop, shoulders hunched around his ears in a way that didn't look like it was due entirely to the cold.

"Hey," he said. Mitchell's shoulders rose briefly before he turned around, looking resolute in spite of the color high on his cheekbones. John put a tentative smile on his face. They were both pretty far ahead of their supply lines, and he'd always been more comfortable out there than Mitchell. In the meantime, he needed to say yes or no, and say it fast, before Mitchell could give him a manly smack on the shoulder and slam shut the door that had finally swung open between them.

"Wait up," he said mildly, and crossing the space between them, bumped his shoulder against Mitchell's and leaned over until his mouth was nearly touching the wind-reddened skin of Mitchell's neck. Mitchell sucked in a breath and John could feel the long shudder that ran through him just as wheels hissed on the asphalt behind them and a horn sounded lightly. He started to step back, but Mitchell slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him smoothly toward the parked cars, waving an apology at the driver of a battered pickup truck. She saluted and drove past. Mitchell didn't let go.

"Sheppard –" he started to say, and stopped.

There it was, ten seconds away, the quip, the smack on the shoulder, the prospect of talking about nothing but the guns once the game was over, and maybe John missed a lot but he hadn't missed this, and so he leaned over and said, in a voice sharpened by the arousal wrapping around his throat, "Whatever gave you the idea I was a three-pizza kind of guy?"

And he guessed it was the right thing to say, because Mitchell choked and sputtered and finally leaned over and murmured, "I'll ask about the two-for-one special. In the meantime, you ever drive a '67 fastback?"

*

The car was jet black and sat in its space like a jaguar waiting for its prey. Mitchell gave the trunk a pat and reached into his pocket for his keys, dropping them into John's hand with a quick brush of his fingers.

Inside the car, Mitchell pointed out turn signals, lights, the little twist to get the car into reverse. John twisted the key in the ignition and eased off on the clutch, and damn if it wasn't good to have an engine he could feel in his hands and his feet and his balls under his control again. He backed the car out of its space and drove carefully toward the main exit. Next to him, Mitchell slid down in the seat, punched a few buttons on his phone, and ordered a pizza.

"I had one of these once." John put out his hand and tapped the slick cold vinyl of the dash.   
Mitchell slid his phone back into his pocket. "'67?"

" '68, I think. Cherry red. Cops'd give me speeding tickets when I was parked in my dad's driveway. I ended up selling the thing after a while."

"Red's a ticket magnet," Mitchell agreed.

John goosed the accelerator. "Nah, I sold it 'cause it was too slow." He grinned, signaled, and pulled out onto the road that looped up toward the highway. "You gotta tell me when we get to your exit."

*

PizzaManDelivers showed up as they were pulling into the garage, and John lurked around while Mitchell paid the guy and then followed him and the pizza upstairs, suddenly ravenous.

Mitchell shoved the pizza at John and unlocked his front door. "Kitchen's to the right," he said.

"Beer's in the fridge, help yourself. I'll be right in." John wandered through a small dining room whose gleaming oval table and uncomfortable-looking chairs told him their owner mostly ate in the kitchen. He dropped the box onto a spotless counter and, curious, opened cabinets until he found plates. From the looks of them – creamy white, with fine silver rims and a crest on the bottom – either Mitchell had been married or his mother had furnished his kitchen.

He switched the oven on and slid the pizza inside, trying to remember what he'd eaten off of the year Nancy left. Most of the plates had had cartoon characters on them, he suspected.

He set Mitchell's dishes down on the counter carefully and opened the fridge to grab the beers. An arm snaked around his waist and pulled him back into the warm bulk of a decidedly masculine chest. He stood up and leaned back, and felt Mitchell's breath gust over the skin of his neck.

"John," Mitchell murmured, laughter echoing around the corners of his voice, "put down the beers."

John realized abruptly that his palms were icy cold and wet, and thumped the bottles onto the counter. Mitchell's hand tightened on his hip, urging him to turn around, and he was starting to move when the faint smell of cardboard filled the kitchen. The pizza would keep if he turned the oven down, he thought, and tried to slide out of Mitchell's loose hold.

Mitchell stepped back immediately. "Sorry," he said in a colorless voice.

John stared at him in dismay, and waved a hand toward the oven. "No, I was – I turned it on and – well, it needs to be turned down if –" The rest of the words gave up and stayed in his throat, and when he couldn't dislodge them he walked the four steps to the oven and turned it off with a satisfying snap. _Shit_. Hadn't they covered this part already? Maybe Teyla was right, he needed to work on… something, he wasn't really quite sure what. "You hungry?" he finally said, in something that sounded like his normal drawl.

Mitchell grabbed the beers and popped the tops, and retreated to lean in the doorway. "I could eat. Sheppard –"

"Hey." John ducked his head and crossed the kitchen to where Mitchell was standing, the two longnecks in one hand and an expression John had never seen on his face. Whatever Mitchell was gearing up to say, whatever _out_ he was trying to offer, John had a better idea. "Hey." He cupped Mitchell's jaw and brushed a kiss across his lips. "Pizza, you know?"

Mitchell slung the beers around John's neck and caught his mouth in a fast hard kiss, and then shoved him toward the oven. "I'll bust you back to Cub Scout myself if that box catches fire." He glanced over at the plates on the counter and shook his head, the grin finally reappearing. "Even for you, Sheppard, I'm not eating pizza off my grandmother's dishes. Grab the box and we'll sit on the couch, and if you don't hog all the pepperoni maybe we'll make out later."

*

The couch was long and deep and covered in some kind of impervious-looking fabric, and a small Christmas tree sat in the corner. Mitchell shoved a pair of fat red candles off to one side and dropped the pizza onto the coffee table, and set their beers down next to it.

"Sit down," he said, and John sat. And when Mitchell reached for him, slid his blunt fingered hands into John's hair and pulled him close, John let himself fall into the kiss, into the feel of Mitchell's lips and the taste of his mouth. He wrapped his arms around Mitchell and felt the heavy muscles of Mitchell's back flex under his hands, and deepened the kiss.

Outside the apartment a car door slammed and the sound of laughter dopplered away. John's stomach chose that moment to rumble noisily and Mitchell pulled back and laughed. "Pizza's not going to eat itself," he said, eyes fixed on John's mouth.

John licked his lips and grinned. "No, but unless you've invited Santa's elves to come back by, no one else is going to eat it either. And in the meantime –" He left the phrase unsaid, blushing faintly, but when Mitchell moved back in and slid a hand down between them to palm John's cock through his BDUs, John figured he'd gotten the message. And he, John, had the answer to at least one of the questions he never planned to ask: in Mitchell's world, John Sheppard was whipped cream, definitely.


End file.
